The Class of Professor Kepp


I: The Beginning of Class

On August twenty-first of Fall 2015, nine o' clock sharp, Professor Keppler was to teach Biological Anthropology. He didn't.

He did, but he didn't.

He began his first time teaching Biological Anthropology with a cough. The door clicked politely behind him; and he entered the room shivering and sniffling, and walking sorta stiffly to his desk—not because it was that "time of the year" but because he was reaching well into his seventies. He trembled into his wheely chair. The class fell silent. A kid with his earbuds on and volume raised to the max finally jolted up, eyes open, and pressed the "II" button on his iPod; everyone had been staring at him. The Professor gave a quiet moan as his bony rump adjusted to the seat and arms quivered onto the armrests. His legs kicked up a little. A sigh. He stood a stack of papers up, shook them in order, set them down; looked to his laptop, then turned to look to the blue screen projected behind him. The USB plug stuck in the laptop drive socket needed adjusting, reckoned Professor Kepp. Make sure it's in firmly....

"Excuse me," he whispered, looking at the class. He took the USB cord out to examine the end, blow on the end.

* * *

Meanwhile a kid named Barry Took took his attention from Professor Kepp to the Froot Loops box he was squeezing. He bit his lip, looked both ways. If he could dig a fingernail underneath the two flaps of the box top, he could open the box. But another dilemma occurred: when the flaps were up, how would he open the plastic bag without disrupting the class—without the loud tear? Toucan Sam offered no advice, avoided eye contact with Barry even. Desparation took Barry Took. He jabbed a thumbnail in the top.

* * *

Tameka Florent had lain her college-bound notebook in front of her and held her green no.2 pencil with the "happy Suns" patterning above the notebook, with a "ready-whenever" grip. So far, she'd no notes. So far, there'd been none to take. That old guy Kepp was really bumping the ends of two USBs together—like Dr. Frankenstein right before the exclamation of "It's alive!" No thunder flashed. The blue screen stayed blue. Sighing, she shut her notebook, then looked up at Dandy, her little three-stubbed cactus in a clay pot the size of a teacup. (She'd brought it to show off at Botany. Laury the girl who had sat beside her in that class actually sassed her with her eyebrows, gave an apalled look as if to say, You brought a cactus on syllabus day? And when Tameka told Tarie she "had Dandy" with her in a text, Tarie replied, "tameka... lol".) Gosh! She should've shown Ms. Margarette who'da given her extra credit. Snapping a latex glove on, Tammy pet her cactus' left stub.

I love you, Dandy, Tammy told Dandy through their mental bond.

She resolved on watering Dandy—repotting Dandy—when she got home. Then Dandy would grow. Their telekinetic love would grow. Someone else would finally take interest in Dandy, too.... But this epiphany, that someone else might care for Dandy, was deeply perturbing to Tamekea; she shifted in her seat, shivered. Should she water Dandy if it would arouse a caring for Dandy in someone else? Dandy could only care for Tameka and vice versa. Tameka needst establish that. Flipping her notebook open to a clear page, she began to brainstorm ideas of how to keep her cactus faithful.

* * *

Jiu Chen was really starting to dishonour his family. Passing a class with no standards whatsoever—well—what was an "A++" then? He began to sob silently, began to sniff. Father's Apparition leapt out of the floor, summoned up from the spirit world and full of judgement. Mother appeared from a puff of smoke at his side. They began verbally disciplining him, waggling their fingers at him. A teardrop splashed across the page, blotting what he'd written in Computer Sciences. A shimmer of light from the black sheath of Father's Katana jutting out of his backpack caught his eye. Honour famry, Father echoed, you brought dishonour....

* * *

Brad Harley slouched in his seat and stretched his arms, yawning a yawn that've disrupted the class, were they learning anything. His hand made a sloth claw, scratched the black blot of his armpit exposed by his tanktop. Snow flaky skin follicles snowed down onto the hardwood. Brad Harley only heard "yada-yada-yada" when teachers spoke; it was a mystery why he'd registered at all. Because his friends were on campus on Fridays? Leaning to his left, he lifted up the camping pack he flaked on, threw it onto his desk, zipped it open; tossed aside a flint, a tuna can, a camoflauge condom. Discovering a sleepingbag down there, he whipped it out, threw it unrolling out onto the floor. Students adjacent busied themselves on their phones or sleeping; he took the opportunity to kick his seat back then stand. He conjured a pillow from the pack then threw the pillow on the bag. Next he threw himself on the bag. He zipped it up. Crossing his arms, he slept.

* * *

Gerald Ladelson nodded approvingly at the student who'd taken the initiative to sleep. But of course! We can't live life staring at a blue screen! Carpe diem: seize the day! Presently Gerald brought up an amazon page and a "helicopter anatomy" tab on his laptop. Switching from one to another with a click-click-click he began to compare prices between rotors, landing skids, engines...

* * *

Inspiration pent up in Clarice T. as colours flashed on the screen of the kid in front of her. What kind of notes was he taking? A new feeling: distress. Was she taking good notes? She wasn't an underachiever, was she? Oh no! What if she was? Her heart suddenly pounding and face hot, she clicked her pen; began jotting notes as speedily as possible: Professor Kepp crouching on top of his desk; Professor Kepp standing shakily; Professor Kepp reaching one flabby old-man arm out toward the ceiling projector to press the button beneath it. What was that button called? Think Clarice! She drew up a diagram of the projector; began to label it: on-button! metal casing! projection lenses! air vents! Her breathing grew erratic, her handwriting sloppy.



II: 9:30 on the Analog Clock

Profesor Kepp looked fit to have a stroke if his arm on his "heart-side" stretched out any further. Slowly, he drew it back; bent his knees; staggered a foot to the floor. "Just a moment, you guys," he whimpered. "Please be patient."

* * *

Barry Took had succeeded: the flaps of the box top were up. He had hid the rustle of his opening-the-box with the unraveling of the other kid's sleepingbag—a decoy. Barry fingered the other flap up. Staring down the open box, he gazed on the plastic bag. He heard his Froot Loops call his name; say with subtle sexual undertones, Barry.

Barry licked his bottom lip. It wouldn't be much longer now, he told the Froot Loops.

Toucan Sam doubted him from the start.

"I can do it," Barry said, his voice cracking. The irony: he needed a strong tone to assure them, but without the Loops, he was weak.

* * *

Tameka Florence was patting new soil around Dandy, now, in a pot as wide as Kepp's laptop monitor. A sack of Scott's Organic Choice fertilizer was propped up against the pot. Dirt had been spilled everywhere. Luckily both of Tameka's hands had latex gloves.

My care grows for you, Tameka drifted, as you care for me. You do care, do you, Dandy? Care. Care! Care Dandy!

Each time she shouted telekinetically at it, it throbbed. The soil about Dandy began to stir; Dandy began to grow. The love of Tameka had fertilized him more than any soil could.

* * *

Jiu unzipped his backpack, drawing from it Liung Chen, his Father's Katana. The black sheath clanged to the floor as Jiu held the blade out in front of him. He nudged the point into his ribs—as if testing—drew his arms up, and then—

* * *

Brad awoke, sitting upright. A smile. A yawn. Black bags had been beneath his eyes before. But they were vanished now. He was ready to pitch his tent. But first, he lobbed a bundle of firewood onto the floor beside him—clack-clack-clack-clack—then struck his flint. A bonfire burst into flames. Brad roasted some marshmallows and made smores, and thought, Why not a grilled cheese as well? While he munched on crispy wheat bread—the aroma of cheddar wafting over to other, jealous students—smoke rose up into the ceiling vents. After napkining his mouth off, he pitched a tent; set it up, nailed it down into the hardwood. Unzipping the door, he crawled in. A hand reached out to pull the sleepingbag in. A minute later he grunted his annoyance; his camping pack was still outside. Should he ask Wanda to fetch it for him? Professor Kepp, maybe? Presently a bear growl came from outside the tent, and he thought better of it. He zipped up the tent,

gasped. "A bear."

* * *

Gerald Ladelson was standing, nodding to the U.P.S. workers hauling in boxes of helicopter parts. He pointed a finger and told them to "just set them down there". They did, and they left; and then he began to build: now, his blowtorch was out, and his blowtorch mask was on.

* * *

Clarice bubbled in her multiple-question Biological Anthropology final.



III: Ten O'Clock on the Analog Clock

"Just one moment," Professor Kepp said. Dust from the projector clung to his glases lenses. Professor Kepp moaned innocently. Taking off his glasses, he pulled out the tuck of his shirt—began to use it as a lense cleaner.

* * *

Meanwhile:

Bulbs of sweat fell from Barry's forehead. The Fruit Loops box was surrounded by a bridgeless moat of Barry's sweat, now. Barry, the box said. Toucan Sam, Barry said. His eyes widened; suddenly he was self-aware; suddenly he turned to his neighbors. Ah! Good! Both had their heads hidden beneath their arms on their desks. They hadn't seen him fondle the inside of the box or wipe sweat on his khakis.

Focus, Barry. Pinch the sides of the top of the bag—just like that—now, tug on either side. It's not enough. Harder, Barry. Harder. Faster Barry oh Barry faster!

Barry moaned aloud, coming saliva down his chin. The plastic bag had crackled; he had gone too fast. Yet it was not open. Barry must relax. Allow the Froot Loops to relax as well.

* * *

Tameka, I knew you loved me, the cactus whispered in her mind. It throbbed erratically as she watered its soil; and with each throb, it grew, until it was in a relatively little clay pot. It drew a shadow over her desk. Its stubs were huge—wide as Tameka's thighs.

I knew you loved me! Tameka giggled. I never doubted you for a second, Dandy.

Then Dandy whispered in her ear: Tameka. Do you love me as much as I love you?

* * *

"Forgive me Father!" Chen cried. Plunging his katana forward, he—

* * *

The grizzly bear was still padding around outside his tent in circles, Brad could see. Its silhouette cast a shadow from one wall to the next. Brad held his breath. His heart was thumping like crazy; and he crawled backward into the center of the tent, lest it attack from any angle.

My switchblade, Brad thought.

He drew out from his pocket a Swiss Army knife father had given him. A press of a button on the side of the knife: a butcher knife popped out! The knife casing became a hilt! Outside the bear growled.

"Come at me, you furry bastard," he growled back, standing up. "Try me."

* * *

Gerald stood—blow torch and mask on—fusing bars of metal with fire on his desk. The desk sprung into flame, began to blacken, began to smolder; the vent of the ceiling inhaled as much as it could, but the room was clouding with a rising dark-grey and thickening with a sooty smell. The light on the fire detector next to the vent wasn't on. Sleeping children began to cough, bolt up, blink their eyes.

* * *

Clarice took her seat. She had placed her final on Professor Kepp's desk, and her butt was now anxiously writhing atop the seat.

I wonder if I passed! thought Clarice.



IV: 10:30 on the Analog Clock

The hearing aid in Professor Kepp's left ear screeched. "Oh," Professor Kepp whimpered, giving his ear a light smack.

His other hand—which had held the glasses—uncurled, and they dropped to the floor. In the fumble around for them, Kep kicked them beneath his desk. "Oh, oh no." At this moment he saw the USB cord trailing into the floor looking very loose. He bent down, quivering, then tugged on it. The power plug came up. "Oh, the connector isn't plugged in...." A little louder, "Okay, guys. Give me one moment...."

* * *

Barry shook giddily. "Heeeee!" He had used the growl of the bear as a decoy; he had opened the bag! Now the Froot Loops smell that made him pelvic thrust into the bottom of the desk rushed into his nostrils, made his nostril-hair uncurl, made his nostril-hair do the noodle dance. He shut his eyes, moaning in private, tearing his fingernails into his legs and thumbnails into his khaki cuffs. Peeking them open: red loops! green loops! Oh, orange, you were always my favorite. He upended the box, kissing into it. Kinda wiggling his tongue into it below the flaps. Except his tongue was too short.

It was okay.

He would take out a blank sheet of paper and set that on his desk; then he'd tilt the box and spill some of the loops on top of that; and then he'd unzip the pocket of his backpack the Elmer's Glue was in. Slowly but surely, Barry began to arrange the Loops on the page by colour. There were five categories: blue; red; orange and yellow; green; and purple. The blues, he arranged to form a "B" shape—"B" for "Barry"—and then glued them to the page. He did the same for the rest. "E" was orange and yellow; red, "R"; purple, the other "R"; and green, "Y". The moment the Froot Loops spelled "Barry" he pelvic thrusted again, knocking the desk over and on its side. Barry howled, falling backward in his seat. It toppled; and he spilled, in a roll, onto the floor. The paper reading "Barry" slowly teetered down in the air, did a gentle land on him.

"Froot Looooops." It was the happiest moan he had ever made. And he was the happiest man on Earth with a cereal box, for now the Froot Loops were his. Barry's. All Barry's.

It was written.

* * *

"What?"

I said Do you love me as much as I love you. Will you kiss me now Tameka? Kiss me to display your affections?

Tameka blushed. You're a prickly thing, she told him.

So you will not? Dandy's tone grew cold. All that you said the beginning of class this morning: was it all words? Do you not love me Tameka?

I do.

Then kiss me. Kiss me Tameka. Take off your gloves and give me the courtesy of touch.

It'll hurt, Tameka pleaded.

As much as you've hurt me?

Dandy! Please—there's no need to raise your voice.

Tameka, said Dandy, calming down. Tameka. Tameka Tameka. Just do it. What are you afraid of, girl? Open yourself to me. Care for me so that I may care for you....

Tameka, mouth agape, began to stutter. But enough: she shook her head. She pulled on the latex finger of one glove, whipped it off; did the same for the second glove. The throb of her heart would knock the clay pot over any second now; Dandy shivered to her pulse. When she wrapped her arms around him initially she screamed and flinched backward. Cold pricklies had stuck into her.

Tameka, you are doubting your infatuation.

No, Dandy, I swear, you just—you hurt.

It was all lies. You are repelled by me.

Dandy, no, I love you.

You care more about Professor Kepp than you do of me.

Not true, Dandy. Quit spreading rumors!

The same way you spread your legs for Professor Kepp?

Huh! Dandy! That was very uncalled for....

Very unprofessional of me?

He just grades my tests. I don't care for Kepp.

YOU'RE A LIAR, TAMEKA! A LIAR!

That last one knocked the breath out of Tameka. She fell to the floor in a croissant-shape, sobbing, and rocking back and forth; and then the sobbing intensified; and then she screamed, flapping her prickled arms; and she stood, and ran out of the room, smashing the door shut behind her.

Bitch, Dandy mumbled.

Out in the hall: when Tameka told Tarie she broke up with Dandy in a text, Tarie replied:

"tameka... lmao".

* * *

—pierced through the small of his ribs. Jiu Chen's head shot backward; Jiu Chen loosed a sorrowful wail to the smoldering ceiling. With Father's katana jutting out of his backside, he fell backward in his chair, rolling out of it, and painting his either side in the thick of his sputtering / pooling blood.

Father's Apparition blinked down on him, then vanished along with Mother.

An echo: You did right thing Son.

* * *

He heard the zrrrrrrrt of the tent unzipping right before the door flap fell. Then he saw: the head of the bear. The bear! A grizzly bear pushing through the flap of the tent with its upper lip curling into a snarl; and its lower lip trembling in a growl; and its yellowed canines and gums bared.

"Back!" Brad said, walking backward in circles; the bear, forward.

Brad swung with butcher knife while bear parried with paw; bear lunged forward, snapping its jaws, while Brad dodged; the bear swung a paw, and Gerald did a Neo-in-the-Matrix dodge, bending backward while keeping on his toes ("woa-oa-oa!"), his arms as plane-propellers. He stumbled back into the wall of the tent. The tent came tearing down—first, the poles shuddering then snapping away—fabric and all. It fell on the bear and the man on the floor; and the fabric molded around their shapes. And so it appeared the bear had raised its paw to maul Brad while he was down—when a bump came up in the fabric, poking out of the bear's back. A long bump—a sharp bump—a... a... a butcher knife! Red spread from the top fabric down the sides until the entire form of the bear was crimson. A shuddering man-shape wailed! bloodied and all! Little goose-prickles ran up his arms as the bear exhaled the last 10% of its lungs—that dying breath—in Gerald's face. Foul air—stale air—like moldy cheese and salmon left in the sun for carrion and flies, maggots. Gerald twisted the butcher knife ninety-degrees, heard a crackle of ribs. He tried withdrawing from the bear but was stuck. He grunted, pulling several times on the switchblade-hilt. No use. Again. Nada. Conceding, Gerald slowly rolled onto his stomach-side; groaning, cringing his nose from the stench; fumbling his fingers out in front of him to find the zipper of the door; finding the door already unzipped...

And when he came out, he was dragging the bear out on the butcher knife toward the bonfire, blood trailing and all—as if about to roast a shish kebab. Instead he thrust a foot into the bear and yanked hard on the hilt. This time, it came out. Brad fell backward, a few unlucky hairs on his head sizzling above the coals. But triumphantly he sat up! waved his gory blade about! Proceeded to leap on the bear and thrust into it again—this time, from the top down. His arm hack-sawed into the thing, spittle of blood flying up and turning his tank-top into a maroon canvas, and shoes as well, and desk too. The half of his face facing the bear had been painted. If he turned to face you, you could see the "half-mask" look; and if you watched anime you might have said, "Ah! Ichigo!"

A skinless bear of only flesh lay shriveling up, showing bones. Gerald donned a bear-hide skin similar to his grandfather's rug on his back. The skin of the bear's head hung from his like a hoodie. The void eye sockets of his bear-hoodie shook any classmates who looked upon them. (Only one or two, since most of them were asleep.)

"I am a new beast," said the man beneath the bear.

* * *

Gerald lifted his blowtorch mask up, turned off his torch, and saw: in the clearing smokes, a Robinson R22 helicopter. He hadn't built a helipad for the thing in the classroom; but the space he cleared by moving away the desks of the sleeping students had sufficed. He stuck a screwdriver in the door, the rotors, the tail, just to make sure all was a-screwed tight. Then he leapt in, sliding the side-door shut. A crank of a lever: rotor blades began spinning and a shimmer of air began rippling in a radius beneath the copter. The skids began to wobble up off the ground. And... lift off! A few vacant chairs were caught up in the vacuum turbulence, torn to shreds by the accelerating rotors. Any average copter would have gone haywire! Not Gerald's! It sucked a desk up then spat out splinters before shooting up—up—up into, and through, the ceiling! Cheap Chinese plaster crumbled down and around the rotors at once. Dusty debris rained down on the hardfloor—a manmade meteorite crash-landing on Kepp's desk. THWOOMPH. Kepp had his head down beneath the desk, him fumbling with connectors, so he hadn't seen or heard.

Off off and away went Gerald into the sky in his helicopter!

"I'm gonna fly to a four-year," exclaimed Gerald, "go for my Bachelor's."

* * *

Meanwhile, three-thousand miles away in Eastern America, Clarice T. was shaking the hands of men and women in suit-and-ties in front of a live and a television-broadcasted audience, accepting the Pulitzer Prize for her theory on humans evolving from whales.

"Thank you, thank you," she yelled over clapping, and cheering, and "Clarice sign my t-shirt!"s.

After accepting a plaque with a medal, Clarice was handed a mic.

"Miss Tea, I must say I am a long-time admirer of your work," a man name-tagged Mike Pride said. "If I could just have your autograph, I'll sell it on ebay for more than my networth."

"Thanks, but no thanks, Mike." Clarice did a sassy head wave away from him, smiling prettily to her audience. "Men whore themselves to me for my signature. I don't need money." Ahem—clearing her throat.

Cupping his hands—above her hands—around the mic, he said, "Anyway Clarice. Now is not the time for my to explain how many posters of you I've gone through this month in my masturbation sessions, or how much more important you are to me than Nikola Tesla; now is the time to ask you a question everyone has been wondering about: how did you get the idea? for the theory? Who taught you so well?"

Her eyes sparkled. She considered the question for a moment. And then she replied, "Professor Keppler taught me."

Professor Keppler! Who was this Keppler?! Tabloids were written up; movie-scripts were made, speculating on this mystery man who sparked the mind of the century: This Keppler! The Catalyst Keppler!



V: The Ending of Class

"Yay," Professor Kepp whimpered.

He had risen up from underneath the desk and had turned: the bluescreen had flashed away; the role-call spreadsheet was now visible to all! "I," a cough, "I appreciate you waiting, you guys. Now we can begin taking roll." He stared down on the laptop screen. To the smoke-clouded air, the ceiling missing and letting the sun in, the asian kid who'd committed hara-kiri splattered with gore on the floor, Barry lying on the floor doing a sandpaper-esque grind with his nametag on his crotch, etcetera etcetera, Kepp was oblivious. "Barry?"

No response. Marked absent.

"Kyle?... Lacy?... Lewis?... Hammy?... Tameka?"

No response. Absent.

Last on the list was Brad, the only student to respond. "Here—but call me Brad the Bearskinned."

Kepp almost gave a glance up but thought better of it. Or he hadn't heard Brad at all.

"You guys... we have to work on listening for our names during role call. I won't drop you today, but next class I will." Finally he stared up, gazing the room through his glazed eyes and charcoaled spectacles. Hardly anyone had showed. Save for sleeping students. "Y-you're going to miss the opportunity to get into a good university with habits like these. Trust me." Then his eye caught the clock—or vice versa—and he gave an "oh" of surprise. Eleven o'clock. "Class is ended. You're free to go. See you next week."

And then, one foot at a time one inch at a time, he made his way for the door with laptop-in-briefcase and jacket hanging from his left shoulder. Brad was still standing there when Kepp shut the door after himself.

"Brad the Bearskinned," repeated Brad, "did you get my name?"

Dandy the Cactus mumbled under its breath as Professor Kepp shut the door:

Faggot.